


small infinities and all that

by JustStandingHere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domesticity, Existential Crisis, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), itsaboutthehands.jpg, top!aziraphale, turned human, turned mortal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:19:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustStandingHere/pseuds/JustStandingHere
Summary: And there it is, isn’t it? Something they’ve known for a long time, but haven’t named it. Have been too scared to name it. Something that speaks in their bones, in the space between them.Crowley and Aziraphale are turned human. This is the aftermath.





	small infinities and all that

**Author's Note:**

> i made a [ playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2wbhxA82QkgJw6CV3ItBbe) for this fic if you wanna listen along

So, it goes like this: they know relative peace for five days. Bodies are exchanged. Threats are exchanged. Things that are meant to be said happen in hands, in looks, in the space between piano keys at the Ritz. And for five days things appear as normal as they've ever been.

Then, this: Aziraphale finds himself slumped over his desk. The morning sunlight is beginning to cascade down the shelves. It was not there the last time he opened his eyes. Just a moment ago he had been doing inventory, and now it seems like all of time has shifted on its axis. There's a puddle of drool on his pricing guide. His face is sore from the desk, and the worst of it--he seems to be drifting back into it, into whatever pulled him out of time in the first place.

He's  _ tired. _

He has been many things. Drunk, yes. Exhausted, yes. Out of breath, yes. But never tired, never this feeling that seems to be settling into his joints.

And there's something else, too. His breathing, once a habit, is now painfully obvious. In his rising panic it's becoming almost necessary, and in between each breath--yes, yes, there it is, what is that? It's a knocking, of sorts. It's a steady thrum, slowly picking up speed.

Oh. It's his heartbeat.

He's never had a heartbeat. At least, not until now.

He gestures into the air. For what, he doesn't know. He thinks he’s going to get something like a stethoscope, or perhaps a bottle of scotch, but winds up with thin air. He tries again. And again. He looks at a book and asks it, politely, to be in his hands. The book doesn't budge. He asks less politely. No dice.

A very real, very  _ human _ type of fear is gripping him right now.

He picks up his phone and dials.

"Crowley, I think something is wrong," he says when ansaphone clicks. He runs a hand up his face and through his hair. He can feel his pulse in his ears. "Oh, something is terribly wrong. I slept through the night--drifted off, didn't even realize it, and now I'm. I'm--"

Crowley's voice breaks through the speaker like gravel. "Tired, dizzy, disoriented?"

Aziraphale tightens his grip on the receiver. "Yes! Yes, it's--Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's--" He pauses. Thinks a bit. "How do you know that?"

"Take a wild guess," Crowley answers. Aziraphale's panic extends beyond himself, and he begins to hear the rough edges around Crowley's words. He’s much more collected, but there's a breathiness in his voice that suggest he too has been scrambling. The fact that he’s breathing at all says something.

So they’re both like this. 

"Oh,  _ Crowley-- _ " Something thick is in his throat now. It might be panic, it might be something else entirely. "Let's meet halfway. The bakery."

There's a hum. "See you in ten."

* * *

When Aziraphale arrives at the bakery, his knees ache. Adjusting to breathing and blinking isn't too much of a problem, as he's had centuries worth of practice. He practically forgot it was optional, until it wasn't. 

But the heartbeat. He's having trouble adjusting to the heartbeat. It feels awkward in his chest, the way it has its own rhythm. Unlike breathing and blinking you cannot control your own heartbeat. 

For example: when he sees Crowley inside the bakery. Aziraphale has long associated Crowley with unexpected feelings of warmth and love and so on. He can usually keep these things under control--heaven’s not one for such personal emotions, much less those towards the enemy. But his heart, like a dog, smells the relief and longing gathering in his stomach and jumps from left to right. He almost reels at the shock of it, the sheer power of it. He sees Crowley sitting there and immediately wants to be closer--a normal thought, but now it feels much more alive as opposed to the old ache it's always been. He is beginning to realize why human beings do very stupid things in the name of love.

Crowley doesn't look too different--but, then again, Aziraphale probably doesn't look changed from the outside either. He had expected them to look more gray and withered, for some reason. The ficus in the corner looks more worse for wear than him.

He sits down at the table and Crowley looks over to him, glaring. Up close his frown likes more set, his hair in slight disarray. "I'm hungry," he states, furious at the fact. " _ Me _ .  _ I'm _ hungry. And you will be too." He scratches the back of his neck, stops. "And I itch, too. Like some kind of--of animal."

Aziraphale knows when Crowley gets worked up. He can’t sense it anymore but can feel it coming off of him in waves. "Crowley," he says. 

"All these skin cells, what do they need them for? Better yet, what do  _ we  _ need them for, it's all shedding everywhere--" He scratches at his arm furiously.

Aziraphale places his hands on the table. "Crowley."

He moves to the other arm, leaving deep white lines on the other. "And the warm blood is something else entirely--"

" _ Crowley _ ," Aziraphale demands, and places a hand on Crowley's arm. The demon--or, no. Former demon. New human, if there's anything to go by the warmth seeping into Aziraphale's skin, and it really shouldn't feel that delicious--either way, Crowley stops, mouth moving but no sound coming out, and eventually everything peters to a stop. Aziraphale's hand retreats back. "I know.  _ I know. _ ” He hopes Crowley can see that. 

Crowley leans back in his seat, looking a bit ashamed. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Just--”

“I'm right with you, dear boy.” There's a faint growl of a stomach rumbling. “Let's get you something to eat, hm?" He gestures over to the waitress, finding it more difficult without divine persuasion, and orders them both croissant sandwiches.

Crowley puts a hand to his mouth in thought. “Who--or, what...how? Erm.” He stutters out a stream of other half formed questions before giving up.

They sit in what  _ could _ be seen as companionable silence for the next few minutes. Usually, these silences are somewhere near companionable, if not totally. But now there's panic. Aziraphale fidgets with his fingers. Crowley's leg keeps bouncing, and he's holding his forehead in the heel of his palm. Aziraphale's heart does that funny thing again, seeing Crowley panic like this, and he has the biggest impulse to lay a hand on him again.

After a few minutes of thinking, Aziraphale speaks. "Gabriel," he says. "And Beelzebub. It has to be."

Crowley hums. "Couldn't kill us with a bang. Now they'll kill us with old age. Or cancer. Or not chewing our food correctly."

It is at that moment that the waitress sets their sandwiches down. Both smile, but eye them warily. They take small, slow bites. With every bite Crowley seems to perk up a bit more.

"How could they, though? You can't simply make an ethereal soul earthly. Or an occult one, for that matter."

"Souls," Crowley says in between bites. "Are a lot more changeable than you would think, angel. Look at me. Look at any demon--or, former demon, for that matter." He contemplates the statement for a moment. "And our time here probably didn't help things. Who knows? Maybe we've always been two earthly delights away from humanity."

"So you're suggesting a nice cabernet and a trip to the opera would have done us in?" Aziraphale asks sardonically.

Crowley looks at him, sunglasses betraying nothing. "Among other things." He breaks into a shrug. "'S just a guess, really."

Aziraphale senses something wrong, but chooses not to press it. "What are we going to do?" he asks.

Crowley considers this. "Live our lives? I've got a few, uh. Valuables, that I could sell. Keep comfortable."

Aziraphale frowns. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

“What do you mean ‘just like that'?”

“If you will recall we risked our lives to save this world, and now it seems you're resigned to lose it again.”

Crowley looks at him. Really, really looks at him. And a tiny part of Aziraphale goes  _ don't be so stupid. It wasn't the world he wanted to keep. You know. You  _ know _. You were the same, him and you. You were the same. _

But there are other things to attend to. Crowley is sighing, taking off his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose with his eyes screwed shut. His voice comes out strained. "Aziraphale, I'm tired. I'm tired, and human, and if we try to fight back they'll kill us.” He has a point, and Aziraphale can’t help but concede. “I'd rather have forty years than forty minutes." 

He moves to rubbing his temples, and Aziraphale urges a glass of water towards him. "You need water," he says, a little bit to himself. He eyes the dying ficus in the corner. "You and the plants."

"Sod the plants," says Crowley, but he opens his eyes, gulps down the water like a fish on land. They're only open for a second, before Crowley downs the cup like a man dying of thirst (which, to be fair, he is), but Aziraphale sees it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale says. The world has shifted slightly to the left. "Your eyes."

Crowley stops drinking, and opens them again. Sets the cup down, slowly. Looks at Aziraphale with two round pupils, surrounded by two brown irises, glowing like bronze shields on a battlefield. Or like two eyes, weary, in a bakery. Choose your pick, it could be either. He looks at him a little more, his resolve slowly fading.

"Yeah," he inhales. Then exhales, "The eyes." He tries to speak again once, twice, then gets it. "Should've expected it, really."

Aziraphale can't stop looking at them. "And does this make you…” What does that make  _ him _ ? The sight of Crowley reduced to human matter makes him feel elated on a righteous level and very disappointed on a much more personal one. “Erm.”

Crowley shakes his head. "I don't know what to feel, angel. Still getting over having to feed and water this thing--” He gestures to his body. “--like some kind of weird pet goldfish, I..." A string of syllables come out and he sighs. He pauses, looks at the other tables, and bobs his head to the side. "Kind of nice, though. Not having to wear the glasses."

_ Not having to hide, _ he does not say, but it's there. Aziraphale's beginning to feel it, too. Has been, since the holy water/holy fire incident, but it feels more palpable now. "Well," he says. "I'll miss them. I quite liked them."

Crowley smiles bright. "Did you?"

“Oh, yes. Quite a lot.”

“What about them?”

Aziraphale scowls. "Are you looking for me to stroke your ego?"

Crowley stares, blinks, and the shades are back. "Too bright," he coughs and fiddles with his plate. "Er. We should get some to go. Don't have any food in my fridge. Or a fridge."

"Nor I," Aziraphale muttered. They did have refrigerators, but they operated mostly off of miracles, and Aziraphale's had been purchased in 1964. Someone only knew what the inside looked like now. 

And then there was the matter of the electricity, which would need to be built in. And the safety violations he had miracled away. There was also the matter of rent, and buying the right kind of yogurt for your age and everything else that came from being a human being.

Aziraphale fiddled with his hands. "I have to admit, I feel a bit lost. I have no idea what we should do."

"What we  _ should  _ do is take out some life insurance policies and get ourselves some birthdays," says Crowley. "But it's not a question of what we  _ should _ do. We're human, Aziraphale. The real question is: what do we  _ want  _ to do? Hm?" He smiles, as devilish as ever despite the circumstances. "What do  _ you _ want to do?"

Looking down at his empty plate, Aziraphale ponders this. There are quite a lot of things he wants to do, and a lot of things he has already done. A human bucket list would contain places he's already travelled to, people he has already met, things he has already done. He supposes, when he gets down to it, that he wants some simple things. He wants a scone. He wants to not open a door for somebody without feeling a little guilty. He wants more books. He wants hands on hands, breaths in mouths, lips on skin, his name on Crowley's--

_ That isn't very angelic of you _ , says something rotten and familiar. But Aziraphale can't help it. He’s human and he  _ wants... _ something. Something nice.

He looks up. Crowley is watching him with raised eyebrows. 

"I want to go to the beach," he says, and Crowley smiles. 

"That's doable."

* * *

The water is dark and cold, the salty air is whipping their nostrils, and the sky is the color of wet cement. Crowley watches as Aziraphale stands with his trousers rolled up, beaming out at the channel. For all of his sudden lack of holiness, he still manages to shine like anything. 

"The water's fine!" he calls out. He beckons Crowley forward. "Come in!"

Crowley knows he's warm blooded now, and that any chill he feels is temporary, but he looks at the dark water and grimaces. "Fine out here, thanks!" he calls back.

_ The view is nice enough _ , thinks Crowley, watching Aziraphale wade a little further out into the water, taking in the horizon line, the cliffs. Crowley follows his eye line, his eyes.

The drive was hell. The Bentley, when not demonically influenced, isn't exactly the fast going car Crowley made it out to be. Driving itself isn't as fun when you realize you could actually die if it all goes wrong. The drive was projected to be an hour long, and took twice that, plus some more for when they had to pull over and learn how to buy petrol.

They sat in the car in relative silence. A lot of thinking was to be done, at any rate. Aziraphale stared out the car with a deepest brow, while Crowley took turns panicking over getting them to the beach alive and wondering how we had going to manage this new, weird body of his. He kept looking in the rearview mirror--not because he was a narcissist, though that's as good a reason as any. No, he just can't seem to wrap his head around  _ them _ yet.

But then the water came into view. Aziraphale's face lit up at the sight, and he rolled down the windows to breathe in the air. Crowley desperately wanted to keep it there. This was nothing new.

So here he is, trying to hold it together as Aziraphale says hello to a wave of water as it splashed across his calves, hair mussed by the wind. It's the sort of sight Impressionists would want to capture with their too thick paint brushes. It is a study of light, and color, and it all centers on him.

Crowley could watch this forever. 

He might be able to, he reasons. Human lives are that short. 

He feels his stomach plummet to the ground. He feels the need to check that it’s still there, and that his body didn't just come with a design flaw.

Oh, g--somebody.

Human lives  _ are _ that short.

A small panic sets in. Aziraphale seems too far out of reach now. Crowley takes off his socks and shoes, places them high up on the sand where they've placed their things. He wades into the tide.The water is a shock, and he hisses as he moves (not really, but close enough) towards Aziraphale, who is still looking out at the cliffs like they've appeared fully formed before his eyes.

He has to tell him, he thinks. He has to. What's a few decades to a millennia? He can't waste it.  _ I love you _ , he'll say.  _ I've loved you since time started, before clocks were invented, through wars and the breaking of continents. I want you to take me apart, and I'll do the same, if you ask me. I love you _ . Yes, he'll say that. He'll say it, and Aziraphale will--

Aziraphale turns to see him, delighted but confused. His back is to the cliffs.

_ Too fast _ , Crowley thinks.  _ You go too fast for me. _ Neon lights. Cars passing by. 

So he'll say it, and Aziraphale will repeat those words back to him.  _ Crowley _ , this fake Aziraphale says.  _ We’re still adjusting to all of this. This can’t happen, I’m so very sorry. _

Or--

Or he'll run. And then where’s Crowley after that? Where does that leave him? A whole human life to do...what, exactly? And with whom?

He can’t bear the thought of it.

Aziraphale still grins at him, like Crowley’s self confidence hasn't done a spectacular loop-de-loop. "You made it out! Wasn't so hard, was it?" Crowley can only stare at him.  _ Say it. Say it now! _ Aziraphale frowns. "Are you all right, dear?"

Crowley's words die in the space between his throat and his teeth. It's a slow death. It falters. "Yeah," he recovers. "Yeah, just. Cold. Human bodies, homeostasis that whole--" He gestures. "Erm." 

Aziraphale frowns. "Do you want my jacket?"

_ Yes. _ "Ah, no. No, I think I'm fine." Fuck fuck  _ fuck _ . Deflect, deflect! 

He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around. The hiding of flailing arms makes it harder to tell if you’re losing balance. "Fancy a drink?"

Aziraphale brightens. "Lord, yes. Today has been enough as it is. I think getting sloshed is perfectly reasonable."

"No need to be reasonable anymore."

"Well, still." He pauses, and his face falls. "Oh, b…” He sighs. “Blast. How will we get home?”

Crowley frowns. "What are you talking about? We'll just sober up and-- _ ohh _ ." Regular human bodies. Regular human livers.

First the eating, then the petrol, and now  _ this? _ Crowley’s always been a big fan of humanity, but he has limits.

Aziraphale looks back to the shore, and Crowley’s follows. They scan the town ahead of them. Children are playing in the sand. Cars buzz through the Main Street. All with their own little human lives figured out.

Crowley looks back to Aziraphale for an answer. Aziraphale, still watching the town, lifts his eyebrows in a hesitant manner. “They might have an inn.”

* * *

There’s one room left. It’s a double. Crowley pretends to not be disappointed.

The truth is they don't drink much. A glass each and the events of the day are catching up to them, the sea lapping away at their resolve. The room smells of salt and dust, and soon they’re on cheap quilts, Crowley spread on his bed as Aziraphale sits up against the headboard of his. The gap between their beds is only a foot, but it feels like an ocean.

Azirphale is beginning to nod off, but he doesn’t know it yet. For the last while he’s been slowly listing to one side before jerking back into an upright position. He looks at the bottle on their shared nightstand. "What proof is this?" he slurs. "I swore I've held my liquor much better than this."

"You're not drunk," Crowley says. "You're falling asleep."

"Really? Oh," says Aziraphale. He blinks slowly. "It's quite pleasant. I can see why you, uh, like it."

Crowley can't help smile. He's glad he's still got his glasses on. "I think it's time you went to bed."

Aziraphale hums, and settles back into the dusty pillows. "I suppose so."

So they lay there for a while. Separate beds, bodies running as parallel lines.

Without thinking, Crowley brings a hand out into the gap. Not reaching, necessarily. But it could be, if you wanted it to. 

A brush of fingers, like wind in the trees. Like birds in the trees, singing between the branches. Aziraphale hums.

"Night, dear." The fingers retreat.

Crowley stays very, very still. A breath in. A breath out. He tries to tame the human heart.

“Night, angel.”

Then, sleep.

* * *

One of the more popular theories as to why humans dream is to sort through the memories of the day and process them. Going without sleep for 6000 years, Aziraphale has some catching up to do. 

So he finds himself in a desert. The Desert, the first one. The walls of Eden are far behind him, and his footsteps are beginning to disappear in the sand. A similar trail runs parallel to his, long and unending for miles. It winds about the dunes before suddenly breaking up into two steps at a time. The two paths are very close, but do not touch.

In the distance, there is a fire and two figures huddled close. The woman is smiling into the crook of the man's neck as the man runs circles into her back. Their faces glow in the light.

"I just don't understand," Aziraphale says. "They had the opportunity for eternal life. They  _ lost _ it, and yet they still look happy."

"For my money I think they're just happy to be alive at all," says Crawly. "With no small thanks to you."

"Please," admonishes Aziraphale. "I told you not to bring it up again."

Crawly holds up his hands in surrender. "All I'm saying is, they've got each other. That's got to count for something."

"But one whole eternity, gone.” He clicks his tongue. “I don't know. If it were me, I think I would be a little more devastated, not--" He can’t stop looking at them. Crawly frowns at him. "It's just--who would be content with a short life? Eighty years is hardly long enough.”

"It'll feel long to them," Crawly argues. "Relatively."

Aziraphale sighs. He watches as the two figures look into each others eyes and kiss, smiles on their lips. "I suppose it will be a little eternity, to them."

A breeze passes through the desert and between their wings. Bits of sand are getting between Aziraphale's feathers. From the face Crawly is making he figures it's the same for him. 

"A little eternity spent with the ones you love doesn't sound like the worst thing," Crawly states. "Not that I'd know anything about it, of course. But for them, you know. Must count for something."

Night is approaching. The two figures are bound by touch. Their shadows are long, and Aziraphale is beginning to feel something new and frightening.

He is envious of them.

Aziraphale worryingly sighs. "I suppose you're right." He holds up a threatening finger. "But do  _ not _ tell anyone I said that."

Crawly smiles devilishly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

“So when do you want to head back to London?”

They are eating breakfast at the local cafe. Crowley, at the moment, has taken off his glasses. They got bent in his sleep. He is looking out to the shore, where the seagulls are flocking, and in the morning light his eyes almost look gold again.

Aziraphale thinks very carefully about the feeling settling between his ribs. It’s not unfamiliar, but with a dose of humanity it’s...something. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t want to name it. Not right now, while things are still so new. But he likes the feeling, as much as he is scared of it, and can’t imagine feeling it anywhere else. Not Heaven, not Hell, Hong Kong, Paris, Moscow. Not London, even.

“Actually,” says Aziraphale, and it all sort of works itself out.

* * *

It takes two days to make the paperwork. They choose each other’s birthdays (“A birthday says a lot about somebody” “Angel, if you start in on the astrology again I swear--”). Aziraphale makes Crowley’s birthday sometime in late October. He then sees that Crowley has put his birthday down as June 6th of 1966 and changes it to St. Patrick’s Day. “He drove out the snakes,” he says, and Crowley can only parrot it back in a mocking tone. In the end they get out a calendar and pick random dates. Crowley was born in mid-February, Aziraphale late November.

It takes another day to find the house. It’s their first stop on their route, and the minute they see it Crowley sees Aziraphale’s eyes light up and buys it. There’s a brick chimney, and large windows, and a garden ripe for tending. It’s all they’ll ever need.

It takes a week to properly move in. For once, Crowley does not mind that he cannot simply snap his fingers and make things happen. There’s a sort of decision making that comes from moving in the human way, the careful act of choice. In the end, most of the furnishings come from Aziraphale’s apartment and bookstore, and the appliances from Crowley’s. Books and houseplants are everywhere, snuck into every corner that can be found. The  _ Summa Theologica _ sits in the space between the microwave and the cabinets. The windowsills are covered in ferns. Crowley starts growing passionflower up the chimney--first as a joke, and then because the flowers are, in all actuality, quite lovely. Not that he would ever tell them that.

Then there’s the matter of the bedroom.

Crowley thinks, because he exists and therefore etc, etc, that it’s going to be much more of a problem that it actually becomes. He thinks a lot about parallel lines, and the hand in the gap, but the thing is.

Well. The thing is, the concept of falling asleep is still entirely foreign to Aziraphale. So Crowley will say he is going to bed, and Aziraphale will hum into the book he is reading, and Crowley will find him in his chair, on his desk, and--in one instance he will never forget--on the floor. And Aziraphale will wake with a crick in his neck, and Crowley will do his best to agitate it, and life goes on.

And Crowley, for all that he is, tries to pretend that when he wakes up with an arm reached out for  _ something _ , it doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

* * *

It happens when it rains. Of course it does. It always happens when it rains.

Crowley’s planting hydrangeas in the front yard when it begins to rain, and ignores it until he is finished. He’s been in storms before without much damage. By the time he is finished he’s dripping on the floor, and Aziraphale admonishes him for it, and everything seems fine.

Until the morning.

He wakes up feeling like his throat has been scratched out. He can’t breathe--or he can, he guesses, but it’s loud and through the mouth. Explains the throat. And his muscles don’t care to move. 

“Aziraphale,” he yells out. His voice is a croak and rips his throat. Nothing. He tries one more time. “Aziraphale!”

A few moments later Aziraphale appears in the doorway. Losing the ability to wear the exact same clothes until he dislikes them, he’s opted for sweater vests and button downs. This one is a hideous shade of beige, and Crowley wants to make fun of it but can’t. “What’s wrong?” he asks. He looks at Crowley, eyes wide, and takes a step back. “My lord, you look awful.”

“Feel awful,” says Crowley. “I think I’m dying. What if I’m dying? Have people always died like this? It’s absolutely miserable.”

Aziraphale is at his side, and there’s a warm hand on his forehead. “No fever,” he says. “I think it’s what people would call a ‘head cold’.”

Crowley squints. “ _ This _ is a cold?  _ This _ ? It’s awful!” His throat crackles. “I used to give people this for kicks on Fridays!”

“You know,” says Aziraphale, “the Hindu religion is big on the concept of something called ‘karma’--”

“Please, angel,” Crowley begs. “No lectures. I already feel like shit as it is.”

Aziraphale scowls, pauses, then leaves the room.

Crowley frowns. “Angel?” he asks. “Aziraphale?”

_ Aziraphale wouldn’t leave me to die, would he? _ Crowley thinks to himself. It's dramatic, he knows, but it opens up a whole can of worms re: death, and dying, and dying alone. What a fragile thing is the mortal body. Crowley almost can’t take it. Every second feels like a blessing, and a waste, and it all depends on his proximity to Aziraphale and how bad it makes his heart burn. Who of the two of them will die first? What will happen after, in the grand scheme of heaven and hell? And more importantly, what will happen with the one who is left behind?   


The thoughts cycle through his head, snot about to drip down his nose and eyes fluffy with exhaustion when Aziraphale returns with a mug and a pill bottle.

“I knew that first aid kit would come in handy,” he says. “And chamomile will help your throat.” He must see the wretched look on Crowley’s face because he stops near the foot of the bed. “Is something else wrong? Are you nauseous?”

Crowley looks at a corner of the room. There’s a photo there from 1907, of the two of them. “We’re going to die someday,” he says.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Really, Crowley,” he says. He sets the mug and pill bottle on the nightstand, Crowley feels the bed dip and Aziraphale settles near his knees. “We may die someday, yes. But  _ not _ today.” He shakes two pills out of the bottle, and hands them to him. “Swallow,” he says, and if Crowley’s throat didn’t hurt he would make some sort of lewd comment. He takes them begrudgingly. Next is the mug. “Drink.”

The tea is pleasantly warm sliding down Crowley’s esophagus. He thinks he can feel it in his lungs, even though human anatomy would suggest otherwise. Aziraphale smiles and takes the mug from him. “Good,” he says, simply, as if it isn’t making Crowley weak in the joints. “Now rest. I’ll take care of you.”

Sleep, compared to everything else, is easy.

* * *

When Aziraphale dreams this time, it is 1348. It is raining. It shouldn’t be--it wasn’t raining when this happened, but here it is. He is standing on the steps of the church, in a commune in France. The air smells foul and chickens dot the road.

There’s a cart being carried around. It's load is heavy. He doesn’t want to look at it, and so continues to stare resolutely ahead.

“They’re saying it’s divine punishment,” says a voice behind him. Crowley, as blasphemous as ever, is mocked up like a priest. He sees the look on Aziraphale’s face and smiles, snake eyes winking behind smoky quartz glasses. “Bishop mucked up the blessing. Whole place is as cool as a cucumber. Don’t you love it when that happens?”

Aziraphale sighs at the garb, giving it a once over, and goes back to not looking at the cart. “Nothing divine about it. If anything, I thought this was your doing.”

Crowley frowns, glances at the cart. “Me?” he asks. He’s legitimately offended. “No, no. Was the rats, of all things. You really thought it was me?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale. “Seems more like your people’s thing, doesn’t it? The boils, the pus--”

Crowley waves a hand. “Some of the other ones, yeah. I imagine Beelz and Pestilence had a field day here. But  _ me _ ?”

“I didn’t mean--” And what is he doing? Apologizing? To a demon? He huffs through his nose. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Crowley shrugs. “Supposed to seed support for the Avignon papacy and all that. Standard stuff. Question is: what are  _ you  _ doing here?”

The cart is growing closer and closer to the church. “I’m supposed to be blessing babies,” he says. “Giving them a safe journey through these trying times.”   


Crowley hums. “They’ll need it,” he says. “If they want to make it thr--” And then, a strangled noise. His hand goes to his neck, and when he pulls away there lies a large lump, already swollen with pus. He seems to be choking from the site of it. 

The cart wheels closer to the church. A cow bell is ringing.

“Crowley?” says Aziraphale, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “What--”

Crowley wretches, and the stairs of the church are black-red. His glasses fall onto the stones of the stairwell.  _ This didn’t happen, _ Aziraphale remembers.  _ It didn’t go this way. _ They argued for a few more minutes and then agreed to take each other’s places in Germany and Denmark. They considered flying to China for some decent food. And yet, here’s Crowley, throwing up blood, his hands beginning to stain from acral gangrene. Aziraphale reaches for him, and when Crowley looks up his yellow eyes are gone. Just two bronze shields in a field, rusting. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “Feel awful. I think I’m dying.”

The cart’s on the steps now. The men are dragging Crowley away, and for all Aziraphale tries, he cannot move. By the time he’s laid down on top of the other bodies, the brown of Crowley’s human eyes has gone the color of peat. There’s still blood coming out of his mouth.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away as the cart begins its journey back down the street. He watches it round the corner, and disappear. Crowley’s glasses are shattered on the steps.

* * *

Crowley wakes from slumber to the sound of the door opening, slowly. He sees a figure standing in the hallway. It’s dark, but he knows who it is. “Wh--” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “What are you doing?” He reads the bedside clock. “It’s 3 in the fucking morning.”

“Just came to check on you,” says Aziraphale. There’s something wrong with his voice, but Crowley is too tired and sick to parse it. “Would you--would you mind if I slept here tonight? It’s just, I feel it would be best for me to monitor you if I’m near you.”

Crowley frowns. “‘S a cold. ‘S nothing, like you said.”

“I know,” says Aziraphale. There it is again, his voice going sideways. “But I would like to anyways.”

It is, all things considered, not the worst thing in the world. Exactly the opposite, actually. Crowley sighs, already settling back in a foggy sleep. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t hog the blankets.”

“Oh, thank you.” Crowley feels the mattress dip a moment later, and the covers shift. There’s a sigh. “Goodnight, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and either Crowley is delirious or his voice cracks with, “Sweet dreams.”

In the morning, Aziraphale is gone, but there’s an imprint in the mattress, and the blankets are shifted. Crowley touches the spot leftover, warm, and when he finds Aziraphale there the next night with a book in hand, well. He’s not one to complain.

* * *

Another two weeks by. Aziraphale joins a book club, and as a consequence cannot stop gossiping about said book club. Crowley finds an old cook book nestled between the washing machine and the wall and thinks  _ hey, why not _ . He finds himself extremely adept at cooking. He never eats much of it, but it always brings him great joy to watch the look on Aziraphale’s face when he comes back from town to chicken dijon and a mushroom saute. “I bought just the wine for this,” he usually says, and he usually has.

Autumn is beginning to sneak it’s way into the atmosphere. Though the day is still warm, the mornings are beginning to chill. The sky is becoming more and more granite, the sea more prevalent in the air as the winds whip it up from the water. They take walks at 6PM, and find that every day the blue of twilight is settling in earlier now. Crowley still wears his glasses out of habit, but it’s getting more and more difficult. One of the side effects of not being able to see in the dark.

Every night it goes like this: Crowley gets into bed first. A half an hour later, Aziraphale follows firmly attached to a book. They turn off the lights. They lie next to each other in stiff lines. Parallel lines, every time. They sleep like the dead. They sleep like things that have never really rested until now. 

In the morning, Crowley is usually the first to wake up. He wakes up with his hands nearly touching Aziraphale’s elbow or shoulder. Lines in an equation, so close but not yet touching. He also wakes up hard, usually, and tries to ignore it until he can’t. He cleans the shower weekly as a means of saying I’m sorry, and tries not to look Aziraphale in the eyes when he’s at the door, bleary eyed, waiting for his turn.

Sometimes when he wakes up, his hand is on Aziraphale’s arm. Sometimes he wakes up and it’s touching the body print, Aziraphale already puttering around the house. Neither of them mention it.

* * *

Sometimes they take their walks out to the beach. Despite the cold, Aziraphale will walk out every time to get a better view of the cliffs. Crowley will stand alone for a few minutes, complain, and then step in himself. Aziraphale will watch the waves hit the cliffs. Crowley will watch their shoes lined up next to each other on the sand, and the tide as it inches towards them.

Every time, he so badly wants to say it. And every time instead he will go home and make that dessert Aziraphale likes so much, just to see the look on his face.

* * *

When Aziraphale dreams, it is 3002 BC. It is 884, it is July of 1202, midwinter of 1755, and it just keeps going. Things start to blend together. They will be dressed for Regency and standing in the middle of the grocery store. They will be talking about the electric bill during the Great Fire. They will be watching Hamlet in the desert, and eating grapes that haven’t seen the light of day since Rome burned down.

In this one, it’s 1967. All of it is 1967, and the neon is hitting strange small corners of the Bentley. There’s thermos being carefully held in Crowley’s hands.  _ I should take it back _ , Aziraphale thinks.  _ I should grab it and run. _

“Should I say thank you?”

_ Grab it and run. Do not thank me for something that would take you from me.  _ “Better not.”

A sigh. “Well, can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” Crowley frowns. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could....I don’t know.” He knows. He’s thought about this enough to know. “Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” says Crowley. He’s ever so persistent, isn’t he? “Anywhere you want to go.”

He knows how this goes.  _ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _ He will say it, then leave, and watch the Bentley as it disappears around the corner. That is how it all happened.

But that’s not how it happens here. There is lucidity, here. The freedom only dreams can provide. Here he can be of braver mettle than he’s made of. He does not speak. Instead, Aziraphale reaches out. He places the thermos in the cupholder, their hands overlapping, knowing Crowley is watching, and then looks him in the eye.

“Take me home,” he says, like he means it. He wants to make sure he means it. 

And in the logic of dreams they are in the bookshop, in the back room. They don’t look like themselves from 1967. They are themselves, now. Crowley is crowded up on the desk, his knees bracketing Aziraphale. Their mouths are hungry for each other, and Aziraphale tries to get his hands everywhere he can. Muscle memory provides the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, the seams on his trousers, the noises he makes when he is happy.

He runs his tongue along Crowley’s bottom lip, and the demon moans. Aziraphale chases it, leaning in closer and he feels that Crowley is hard underneath him. He can’t help himself, applying pressure and hearing the wonderful sound Crowley makes, like something is breaking inside of him. Crowley’s hands are in his hair, tightening their grip, and his breaths are getting short.

“Need,” says Crowley. “I need--”

Aziraphale pulls back to look at him. He is wrecked. The sunglasses are long off, and one eye is a slit, the other brown. Aziraphale thinks he looks absolutely beautiful. He tries to capture the feeling of Crowley’s cheek on his thumb, before it’s been too long and he has to feel Crowley’s skin under his lips again.

Gravity shifts. They are on the couch, horizontal, and Crowley is has one hand gripping the armrest, the other grasping at Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale is already moving in him, and the feeling is something electric. It's not how it went but how it  _ could _ have went, if they had been brave enough, and Aziraphale feels plenty brave. Crowley keens at Aziraphale’s thrusts and Aziraphale feels all at once very large and very small. Aziraphale wants to see Crowley lose himself, wants to see him taken apart. He wants to let go.

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, but it resides in that space between a question and a declaration. “I need--”

“I love you,” says Aziraphale, because what else is there to say? But the edges of the image are getting hazy. His voice seems like it’s somewhere else. Awareness is prickling at his being. “I love you, I love you, I--”

* * *

“Love you,” he says, but it’s with the scratch of vocal chords drawn out of sleep. He’s suddenly aware that his eyes are closed. There’s something pressing against his upper arm.

He opens his eyes. Seabirds are crying out in the distance. Dawn is just caressing the face of morning, holding it in her hands for a moment before letting her out into the world. Everything is quiet and still. Pale yellow sunlight is fading in through the windows.

Aziraphale realizes he is still painfully hard. If he shifts he’s sure something embarrassing will happen. He supposes he is lucky there wasn’t any sort of nocturnal emission, mostly because he doesn’t want to go through the ordeal of washing the sheets discreetly. Still, he lies as still as he can. No use in making things worse.

A small sound comes from his right. Aziraphale turns his head in time to see Crowley bury his face into the space between Aziraphale’s shoulder and the pillow. His sleep shirt is rucked up in ways unknown to physics. His face is the most peaceful it's ever been, completely unguarded. His hand is holding onto Aziraphale’s upper arm in the unguarded way a small child will hold onto a blanket, a stuffed animal. Something they love in totality.

Perhaps it is the dream, or the sight of Crowley’s face in the soft light, but something in Aziraphale breaks through the surface, lungs filling with air for the first time.

He moves, slowly, so as to not wake Crowley. Brings his hand up from under the sheets, aware of the muscles shifting under Crowley’s fingers. His hand has a slow journey up his chest before hovering over with Crowley is gripping him, curled in a loose fist. Slowly, he unravels his fingers and tries to blame gravity for the way Crowley’s skin is at his fingertips. If he’s slow enough, gentle enough, he can make an inventory of the hills and valleys of his knuckles. 

_ I want _ , he thinks, and he can’t seem to finish the thought because it is suddenly too much.  _ I want you. I desire you. Can we stay like this for the rest of time? I think I could lie here that long. I would. _

His hand starts to drift towards Crowley’s face and the small tattoo just under his hairline. It can’t reach it at this angle, but perhaps that’s for the best. 

Crowley sighs in his sleep, his grip tightening before going back to its state of casual possession. It snaps Aziraphale out of his current state, but only slightly. Like a specter the feeling haunts the space between his sternum and the gap in his ribs. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears. How is Crowley not awake? How can he not hear this terrible percussion? 

He lowers his hand back onto his stomach but looks at Crowley a little more. The light of sunrise is giving his hair the color of fresh fruit in the summer, and when he looks down the bed he can see their knees almost touching. He can feel the warmth of it. He shifts so they might touch, at least for a moment, and has to suppress a groan. 

His erection. Right. The moment breaks, and Aziraphale lies there a little mortified. More than a little mortified. Something tells him he should be feeling guilty for all of this.

_ You’re an angel _ , it says.  _ This shouldn’t happen. _

But he’s not an angel anymore.

He gently pries Crowley’s fingers from his arm and gets out of the bed. He watches as Crowley curls his fist back into himself and smothers his face into Aziraphale’s pillow. Aziraphale tries not to look at the sight for too long.

He heads for the bathroom. It’ll be another hour before Crowley wakes up, and Aziraphale needs a long shower.

* * *

For the next few days, Aziraphale is out of the bed and out of the house before Crowley is awake. He goes on errands, goes to catch up with the women from the book club. He’s only gone for a few hours more than usual, but his absence from the house is palpable. Crowley asks if he wants to go for a walk and Aziraphale tells him he’s quite enraptured with the novel he’s been staring at blankly for the last five minutes.

“Did I do something?” Crowley asks eventually. He’s managed to pull Aziraphale out for one walk. It’s November now, and winter is starting to crawl out from the soil and lay claim to the vegetation. It’s raining again, but they both have the sense to wear coats.

“What? No, my dear, of course not. Why would you even imply such a thing?” Aziraphale’s voice, for all that he tries, is not doing a good job of making him look any less guilty.

“Is it because I shrunk your sweaters?” Crowley asks. “I’ll admit the first time was a joke, but the rest were on accident.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Washing machines were something from my side, now that I think about it. Sure, the whole--” He gestures for the right word. “--convenient, clean clothes thing, that’s nice. But you never had to worry about not fitting into your old clothes unless you made some extreme lifestyle changes. I think I got a commendation for it--”

“You  _ shrunk my clothes? _ ”

“It was funny! At least the first time was. Feel a bit guilty for the rest.” Aziraphale looks at him with the deepest sense of betrayal. “I’ll buy you some new ones, anything you like.”

Aziraphale looks at him, then softens. “Thank you,” he says with a little smile. “And unless you’ve done anything else, rest assured I’m not angry with you. I’ve just been a bit busy, is all.”

Well, there is the issue with the books that have bolognese sauce stained into their front cover, but Crowley figures it’s collateral damage for keeping them in the kitchen in the first place.

Crowley’s relieved, but still something itches at him. “You’ve never been busy before.”

“Well, humanity is known for its adaptability. Perhaps it’s about time I tried to shake things up a little.”

Crowley hums in agreement. The next morning, Aziraphale sleeps in. He leaves for his errands, but returns with flowers for the sitting room and some oyster mushrooms for a recipe Crowley has been dying to try.

* * *

In the morning, Crowley likes to look at himself in the mirror. Again, not a narcissist, but he can’t help himself. He looks at his eyes the most. It’s been two and a half months, but he’s still wary at the sight of them. It’s not that they don’t fit his face--they do, and that’s the problem. He’s used to parts of himself not quite working with the rest of his body. Now things look a little neater, like a messy bedroom cleaned after years of disorder, and Crowley can’t seem to find his car keys. 

He does enjoy being able to go out without them. Keeping a stock of them everywhere was not only tedious but expensive--but still. It’s the principle of the thing, and all that.

He is grateful, then, that the mark on his face has remained. Sure, it doesn’t move like it used to, doesn’t whisper little jokes in his ear, but it’s there. It’s a reminder, that all of it happened.  _ This is who you are _ , it says.  _ This is who you were. This is still a part of you _ . 

He never thought a sign of his own damnation would be a comfort. Funny, how things work like that.

His fingers trail the outline of it when he notices them peeking out from the top of his head. He plucks one of them from his scalp and stares at it. He holds it up a little higher, hoping that it’s a trick of the light, and comes away with the same silver color from before.

“Aziraphale!” he calls out. “Aziraphale, get in here!”

There’s some commotion from the living room, but soon Aziraphale is half-running, half-sliding down the hallway in his ridiculous argyle socks. “What is it? Are you hurt? Did you fall in the tub--oh.” He stops in the doorway, probably taken back by the scene of Crowley with a wide, manic look on his face and a grey hair between his fingers. “My dear, what am I supposed to be looking at?”

“This, this!” cries Crowley. “It’s a grey hair, Aziraphale.”

“I can see that.”

“I mean, look at it! You know what this means, don’t you?” He waves the hair in the air to prove his point. 

“Crowley--” Aziraphale sighs. “I thought you might have hurt yourself. You nearly gave me a heart attack, I’m sure.” 

“ _ You’re  _ the one having a heart attack? I'm the one who's going to go bald!”

“It’s just a hair, Crowley.”

Crowley has to reel back at the ridiculousness of that statement. “First it’s just a few hairs,” he says. “Just a few hairs, yeah,  _ sure _ , but then! Then it’s the whole head! And not to mention the wrinkles, and the, the spots on our hands. It’s all going, and soon we’ll be nothing but--” He struggles to translate the image he’s got into words. “Lumps! Just old lumps!”

Aziraphale looks at him with crossed arms, in a sort of  _ are you done?  _ Fashion.

Crowley frowns even deeper. “How are you not worrying about this?”

“Crowley, it’s aging,” Aziraphale says. “ _ People _ do it all the time.”

“Our youth is vanishing right before our eyes,” he says, voice quieting down to a whisper. “I mean, it’s been a long youth, but still. In a few years, gone.”

“Honestly,” says Aziraphale says with a sigh. “You’re beginning to sound like an old queen.”

Crowley gapes at the accusation. “Oh, like you’re one to talk!”

Aziraphale gasps and holds a hand to his heart as if wounded. “You take that back!”

“Not gonna.”

“You are acting like a  _ child _ \--”

“Nope! No I’m not! Because according to  _ this _ \--” He holds up the grey hair again. “I’m an old man.  _ We’re _ old men, Aziraphale. You of all people should know that.”

He doesn’t mean it, not really. Still Aziraphale’s face goes stone cold, and he drops his hands to his sides. “Right,” he says, and turns on his heels down the hallway.

“Wait,” says Crowley, guilt overcoming pride in one fell swoop. “Wait, I didn’t mean that.” 

He follows Aziraphale down the hallway, watches him reach for his jacket and shoes.

“I’m going for a walk,” Aziraphale says. “I would highly advise that you do not follow me.”

“Angel, come on, I didn’t--” The door shuts, and Crowley can’t help but deflate a little. The grey hair is somewhere in the hallway, and he’s already forgotten about it. He sighs, trying to rub a headache out of his forehead.  _ He’ll come back _ , he thinks.  _ He has to _ .

He turns around. In the sitting room, seven pairs of eyes stare back at him.

_ “Marjorie’s caught the flu, so I volunteered our house for book club next week,”  _ a memory of Aziraphale from two days ago tells him.  _ “Hope you don’t mind.” _

One of the women, who by her jewelry Crowley can identify is Mrs. Patterson, clears her throat. “Well,” she says. “We should probably be getting on. We can discuss _The Hours_ next week, I’m sure.”

It’s a flurry of handbags and sweaters being pulled on as the line of old ladies shuffle out past Crowley, who has suddenly lost the ability to move. He’s still wafting in the sea of old perfume when a hand lands on his shoulder and pulls him out his shock and embarrassment. He looks down. The woman in front of him is five feet tall and shaped like a toaster oven. It’s Mrs. Turner, if Aziraphale’s comments on her sweaters is anything to go by.

“Don’t worry, love,” she says, kindness spilling out of her voice in the way only old women know how to do. “Me and my husband used to get into fights like this all the time. He’ll be back.”

Crowley can only manage a strangled, half-aborted noise from his throat. Mrs. Turner smiles, pats his shoulder, and leaves Crowley with an empty house.

* * *

Aziraphale returns an hour later. Crowley bolts up from the couch the minute he hears the doorknob turn. Aziraphale stands there in his coat, a pained look on his face.

“I’m sorry for calling you old,” Crowley says. “Really, I am.”

“Apology accepted,” says Aziraphale. “I’m sorry for telling you that you were overreacting.”

“It’s really--it doesn’t matter, now, if I’m honest.” And it’s true. The thought still naws at him, just as all the others thought he has re: aging, mortality, and time do. But he hasn’t been actively thinking about any of  _ that _ in the last hour. “So we’re...we’re good, yeah?”

Aziraphale looks at him in a way that has Crowley’s heart in his throat. “Of  _ course _ we’re good.” Crowley can’t help but smile, and ducks down to look at the floor. Aziraphale looks around. “I hope the ladies at the book club won’t be too cross with me.”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Crowley says. “Horribly nice, the lot of ‘em.” He looks up at Aziraphale, who still looks worried. “Care for some lunch in town?”

Aziraphale smiles, and everything feels right again.

* * *

It's late November now, and winter is coming. It’s near dark when Aziraphale gets back from his shopping. The bookstore in town finally shipped in his order of first edition Anne Carson translations and he is excited to go home and see how they measure up to his own memories. Even from down the road he can hear the music playing, and is perplexed to find it coming from his own home.

When he steps inside, he is immediately hit with the smell of lobster tails meunière--his favorite--along with some garlic potatoes if he’s guessing correctly. Most of the lights are dimmed, with electric candles set out, and the gramophone in the sitting room playing “Les Champs-Elysées”. He takes off his jacket and shoes and sets his bag on the floor. 

In the kitchen, there’s Crowley absently humming along and taste testing the garlic potatoes. At the table there’s already two sets of silverware and plates set out, and a nice bottle of red from their collection. 

“What’s all this?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley turns, spoon still at his mouth. He’s got his glasses on. “You weren’t supposed to be returning home until later.

“The bakery was closed,” he says. He repeats, “Crowley what is all this?”

“It’s, ah. It’s for you, actually.” He gestures to the tiramisu sitting on the counter, decked with five small candles. “Happy birthday.”

He says it with a grin that carries the whole of his face. Aziraphale wonders if it is possible to love someone so much without some sort of divine intervention.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, like an ache isn’t growing in his chest. “I didn’t realize. I mean, we chose them for paperwork purposes. I didn’t think we would celebrate.”

“Yeah, I know,” drawls Crowley. “But--you know. Figured, why not?”

Aziraphale beams at him, unable to contain himself, and a few minutes later they are digging into the meal Crowley has created. It is absolutely wonderful, and delicious in every way possible, and Aziraphale says as much. Crowley preens at this, and as they continue to eat they talk about their days, the weather, the  _ do you remember that one time? _ It quickly devolves into a small argument over which one of them gave Diogenes the idea to fight Plato, and whether Plato was worth listening to at any rate, and soon both of their plates are empty and the tiramisu is being brought in front of Aziraphale, candles lit and handled delicately. He can feel their warmth radiating onto his face.

“What happens now, then?” he asks.

Crowley frowns. “I think people generally sing a song about it.”

Aziraphale hums. “Do you know it?”

“Not really, no. But after the song they blow the candles out, and there’s clapping and then eating. The number’s supposed to represent the number of years, but that’s too much guesswork for me, honestly.”   


Aziraphale nods and blows the candles out. They each cut themselves a slice of dessert. “I wonder how old I am,” Aziraphale thinks aloud three bites in. “Relatively, I mean. Late forties, mid fifties, would you say?”

Crowley grimaces and crosses his arms. “I don’t…not my place to say, really.”

“You’re somewhere in your mid-forties, I’d reckon,” Aziraphale says. “I’m...well, I’ve probably got some years on you. You made that clear.”

Crowley groans. “Don’t bring that up again.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying. Given the relative human life-span, I’d say we’re about the time where people have midlife crises.”

“Angel, let’s not…” Crowley’s voice drifts off. He crosses his arms tighter, eyebrows frowning into his sunglasses. He shakes his head. “Not tonight, please.”

Aziraphale is taken aback by Crowley’s discomfort. “It was only an observation."

“I know, just.” He exhales sharply through his nose and looks resolutely at the table.

Aziraphale’s heart reaches out for him. He places his hand on Crowley’s arm. “Why don’t we go out to the garden, hm?” Crowley doesn’t budge. “It’s a clear night. We can look at the stars.” Crowley’s head jerks up at that, and not five minutes later the dishes are in the sink and they are standing outside.

It is cold. It is frightfully cold, and neither of them are wearing shoes, but away from the light pollution of London the sky lights up with twinkling freckles of stars, an arm of the Milky Way making its way around the heavens as a distant fog of light. The air stings with salt, and in the distance Aziraphale can hear the waves crashing on the shore. 

Crowley takes off his glasses and squints into the sky. From the look on his eyes Aziraphale can tell that he’s seeking out the stars he’s created, the distant nebulas hanging in the gaps of darkness that he drew the blueprints for. He searches for a moment, then his whole face relaxes. He smiles, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile as well out of sheer fondness.

He lets this go on for a few more minutes before speaking, looking up at the constellations. “It really is a beautiful night tonight.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, smiling. “Yeah, it really is.”

“I really am glad we moved,” he says. “We get to spend the rest of our lives looking at this. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Crowley doesn’t respond. When Aziraphale looks to him, he’s looking out at the sea, his expression hard.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Crowley shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t...it’s your birthday, angel, I don’t wanna ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t be ruining anything.”

“I would.”

“You wouldn’t. Honestly, Crowley, I ask you a perfectly innocent question and you freeze up. I only want to know  _ why _ .”

Crowley looks at him. “You want to know why?”

Aziraphale nods. Crowley sighs and runs his hands through his hair.

“Because it’s--it’s midlife crises, and birthdays, and aging,” he says. “And, and grey hairs and lifespans and wrinkles and  _ time _ . It’s time, angel. Before we had endless amounts of it and now it’s, what, fifty years? Forty? And it’s already been three months and what can I show for it? I don’t know how much time we have left and there’s.” He swallows, and looks to the ground. “There’s things I want to do. To say. Things that I thought wouldn’t have a deadline, and now…” He swallows again. “Now, well.”

Aziraphale takes a careful step towards him. “What’s stopping you?” he asks.

They are incredibly close now. Their toes nearly touch each other, separated by a few inches of grass. Not even the wind can get between them.

Crowley looks up from the ground, eyes heavy. “I don’t want to go too fast for you,” he says, shuddering like it’s killing him to say it.

And there it is, isn’t it? Something they’ve known for a long time, but haven’t named it. Have been too scared to name it. Something that speaks in their bones, in the space between them.

“What if I want you to?” Aziraphale asks. It lifts out of his mouth as a whisper. A harsh prayer.

Crowley looks at him with disbelieving eyes. It breaks Aziraphale’s heart, makes him want to grab hold of him and do something stupid and easy. So he kisses him. 

It’s as simple as that, and he can’t quite believe it. It’s exquisite, it’s like nothing he has ever felt before. The thing trapped in his chest tightens as Crowley stays still against him. Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley’s cheek, rubs his thumb against his hairline, a way of saying  _ is this okay? _ , and suddenly Crowley is alive.

It’s nothing like the way he dreamt it. It’s slower, for a start. Crowley melts into him, and they breathe each other in. Aziraphale places his other hand on the back of Crowley’s head, feeling the soft hair there. He can't count the times he’s imagined himself combing it, braiding it, pulling it. Crowley’s hands (and there really is no way to describe it) snake their way around Aziraphale’s neck. 

The kiss deepens, Aziraphale opening his mouth to get a taste of Crowley’s lips. He tastes like tiramisu, and a little bit of garlic, and something older than the soil they’re standing on. Crowley makes a small broken sound, and if Aziraphale wasn’t completely lost before, well. Aziraphale moves one hand to cup Crowley’s jawline, feel the soft hairs at the base of his neck and behind his ear. He shudders. For a moment, he forgets he is outside.

Crowley breaks the kiss. “Angel,” he says. His voice is wrecked. “Angel, please.”

Aziraphale smiles gently and holds Crowley’s face in his hands. “Hush,” he says. “We have much to do.” He pecks Crowley on the lips, a slow thing. “I will tell you I love you in the morning.”

Crowley looks at him, eyes wide. He looks a bit shocked at the revelation, which does something to Aziraphale.  _ How could you not know you were loved? How could anyone not love you?  _ But the shock lasts for just a moment, and then their noses are mashing, tongues pressing together at a much more frantic, desperate pace. It’s been a long time coming. They’re going to have to catch up quick.

Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hands travel up his arms, then up the back of his neck, before finally settling on his hips, his fingers working at untucking his shirt. He tugs once, twice, and suddenly there are warm hands on Aziraphale’s skin. It sends a jolt up his spine.

He needs more--needs to feel more, taste more, see more. They've wasted too much time already. He kisses his way down under Crowley’s jawline, finding him tasting like sweat and something utterly intoxicating. His hands travel down Crowley’s vertebrae before landing on his backside.  _ Well, no use in being coy now. _ Crowley makes a surprised, strangled noise when he squeezes it, and Aziraphale can’t help but laugh into the crook of Crowley’s neck before going back to his previous ministrations, sucking at the skin of Crowley’s neck.

“We should--” Crowley starts. Aziraphale can feel his voice on his lips. “We should--” Aziraphale hums in agreement--he doesn’t know what Crowley’s talking about, but everything feels too nice to not agree. “Bedroom.  _ Bed _ .”

Aziraphale pulls away. “Bed,” he repeats. Synapses are on overloading, on fire, rebuilding themselves. “Yes.”

He steps back, remiss for the lack of warmth, and holds out his hand. Crowley takes it, and Aziraphale leads him into the house. The gramophone is still playing, near the end of the record, “Sunday Times” humming in the background. 

They kiss against the backdoor, the kitchen counter, the hallway. Aziraphale struggles to unbutton Crowley’s shirt, sticks his hands inside to feel the divets of Crowley’s ribs, get his fingers on the small of his back. Crowley mangles Aziraphale’s bow tie with the skill of someone whose been waiting for something like this for millennia. Little bits of clothing are slowly creating a breadcrumb trail from the backdoor to the bedroom. Crowley’s tie on the couch, Aziraphale’s sweater vest tucked into the side of the hallway. When they  _ do _ finally make it back into the bedroom, the only things they have on are their pants and one wet sock on Aziraphale’s left foot. They’re laughing in between kisses, at the clothes on the furniture, on the giddiness of it all, at themselves. How stupid have they been that they haven’t done this before?

Aziraphale pulls away. Crowley’s hair is flying up in ridiculous places, and his pupils are blown wide. He runs a thumb under one of Crowley’s eyes. He misses the old ones, but in this light, they’re something rare. Something none of the great poets could write sonnets about but oh, Aziraphale will try. He will try. 

“You are absolutely beautiful,” he says. “You’ve always been.” 

It's not poetry, not in the least. Still, Crowley lets out a shaky breath. He seems to try to say something, but abandons it. Everything feels warm now, like a blanket. Aziraphale can feel his heartbeat everywhere. Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s hand and kisses his palm before gently grasping his wrist. He kisses his fingers while slowly taking his rings off, his own hands shaking as he does so. It looks like worship. It  _ feels _ like worship.

It’s a lot, all at once. Aziraphale places his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and pushes him onto the bed. He kisses at Crowley’s face, his neck, his collarbones. He leaves a trail down Crowley’s chest.  _ There’s a heartbeat under there _ , a small voice thinks.  _ Same as mine. _ Aziraphale sucks gently at Crowley’s nipple, and Crowley lets out a low moan that goes straight to Aziraphale’s cock. He grinds his hips against Crowley’s thigh, groaning. 

“Angel,” huffs Crowley, in that voice that makes sparks fly up Aziraphale’s veins. “Angel, I need--” He lets out a strangled moan as Aziraphale dips one hand under his waistband, the other rubbing circles into his hip bone, cataloging the architecture there. Crowley’s cock is already warm and leaking in his hand. When Aziraphale looks up, he sees Crowley and fumbles at the sight of him.

“You are absolutely stunning,” Aziraphale finds himself saying. Babbling, more like. He feels like his heart is in between his teeth. “Just beautiful. I don’t--I don’t know how I came to be this lucky to witness you like this. You--”

“Aziraphale,” says Crowley, voice strained. “If you keep talking like that, this won’t last very long.”

“Oh.” He strokes Crowley’s cock, and Crowley keens. How  _ interesting _ . “ _ Oh _ .” 

Crowley blushes bright red. “Don’t--let’s just. Get on with it.”   


Aziraphale returns to his ministrations much more slowly, if only to see the look on Crowley’s face. “Actually, my dear, I find it quite charming.” Crowley trembles, eyes shuttering closed. Aziraphale lets himself enjoy the view for a bit before speaking again. The question has been on his lips for a while, but he fears speaking it aloud. When it comes out, it's quiet. He’s surprised Crowley can hear it.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Crowley’s eyes go wide, voice stuttering. “Well?” Aziraphale presses on. “Do you?”

Eventually, Crowley’s voice catches up to him. “What do you think?”

_ What I want and what I think are very muddled right now. _ “I just want to make sure that we’re both--”

“Yes,  _ yes _ . For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, it’s been six thousand years, of  _ course _ \--” Crowley’s voice breaks, like something dying in the night. He looks at Aziraphale with wide eyes, and it’s all the permission he needs. He kisses Crowley into the bed, teeth clacking, and works hard at getting Crowley’s pants off as Crowley does the same to him.

“Darling,” Aziraphale says in between kisses. “I think we might need--”

“Bed table thingy,” replies Crowley. It’s a horrible display of dexterity as they try to keep themselves attached to each other, but eventually Aziraphale hits home and pulls out a small bottle. 

They don’t allow the break of contact, fumbling half-blind with each other as Aziraphale opens Crowley underneath him. After adding two fingers he crooks them, and Crowley makes this  _ sound _ . Aziraphale, for all the music he has heard over the centuries, has never heard anything so wonderful, so Crowley. He revels in it. Unable to help himself, he takes his hand off Crowley’s cock and encircles his own, groaning into the crook of Crowley’s neck as his arousal sparks at his fingertips. He feels wonderful. He feels amazing. To be like this, without judgement, in the midst of a love that knows there is fault but loves anyway. 

Eventually it’s not enough. Touch needs more touch, skin needs more skin. It’s astonishing, how easily their bodies connect. So many years of the air separated between them--gaps between beds, centimeters of grass, parallel lines in the sand. And yet, here, Aziraphale enters Crowley as slowly as he can. It’s all heavy breathing now, Joe Dassin playing softly in the background, until Crolwey shifts under him. And it’s all so frightening, and he’s shaking at the weight of it, but it’s so  _ easy _ . 

“Darling, you feel--” He pauses as he bottoms out, fights the urge to moan and loses. He let’s forehead fall onto Crowley’s clavicle and sucks a mark there. A small, broken sound escapes from underneath him. When he looks up, Crowley’s eyes are unfocused, almost off somewhere else completely. Somewhere thinking about the years ahead, the years behind. Aziraphale knows--he’s got the same thoughts running through him now. Aziraphale grabs one of his hands. It seems to snap Crowley out of the reverie he’s in.

“Oh,” says Crowley, voice just above a breath.

Aziraphale moves. He has to hold himself back, shaking a bit and biting off dangerous guttural noises. The rhythm is off as he adjusts to how  _ good _ everything feels, how right. How do humans deal with it, all of the nerves and the synapses collapsing in on each other like this? He feels like he’s about to rip them both apart. He feels like this could be the end of him, this. 

Eventually, he hits home, and Crowley’s head rears up from the bed. Aziraphale then decides, fuck it. If this is the end of him, so be it. What better way to go out, Crowley crying out, his fingernails clawing into Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale kisses him so hard it might leave bruises. They’re pulling away with their teeth. They’re beginning to make a dent in the mattress. Crowley looks Aziraphale dead in the eyes, open and uncertain and so full of  _ love _ , and he feels his heart in his fingertips, under his tongue. 

“I could look at you for the rest of time like this,” he babbles. “You feel so good. You are doing so good. I adore you.”

“Angel,” cries Crowley. They’re still holding hands. “Angel, I need--”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says. He doesn’t know who exactly he’s saying it to. He kisses Crowley softly on the lips, slowing down his pace. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

“I love you,” Crowley breathes out. He looks a little lost, like the words are trying to find their way out of his mouth. “I’ve loved you since...clocks. Continents. Oh fuck, I had a whole speech.”

Aziraphale brushes a few strands from his hair. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“I love you so much,” Crowley summarizes. “I love y-- _ fuck _ .” Aziraphale buries himself deep within Crowley, feels him tighten. “Don’t stop, please. Don’t stop.”

Aziraphale brings an arm up to the headboard, kisses Crowley on the forehead, and starts to fuck him into the mattress. He watches as Crowley begins to fall apart more and more with each thrust. All that comes out of his throat are half-formed words, more I love yous. Aziraphale’s might be saying the same thing back--he’s not sure. He marvels at it, this feeling. It’s more brilliant than all the cosmos, more tangential. It’s the holiest thing he’s felt in years--centuries, even. His nerves are on fire, his soul feels bigger than himself, and when Crowley rears his head back with a shout, a half-syllable of Aziraphale’s name on his lips, Aziraphale loses himself completely.

He moans, his thrusts becoming frenetic, chasing after the ecstasy that seems to be building up in his bones, in the spaces between his muscles. Then Crowley seizes one more time, and Aziraphale finds himself coming with a low groan, his face buried into the crook of Crowley’s neck. 

It takes a couple minutes for them to gather themselves. It’s only when Crowley goes, “Nngh. Sticky” that reality seems to fold back in.

Aziraphale lifts his head up. Crowley’s got a look of discomfort on his face. “Oh, ‘m sorry.” He rolls off of him, grimacing. He releases his grip on Crowley’s hand and comes away with pained joints. “Oh, yes,” he says, feeling the cum beginning to crust on his stomach. “Very sticky.” He hums. “Pity we can’t miracle it away.” He looks to Crowley, hoping he’ll get the message, and Crowley makes a sound of annoyance as he gets up and hobbles over to the restroom. He comes out a minute later with a damp washcloth. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. He watches as Crowley groans getting back into bed, nestling himself into Aziraphale’s side. He resolves to kiss him on the temple. “I’m sorry if I got carried away.”

Crowley looks at him wildly. “Carried away? Look at the wall!”

Aziraphale looks to see that the headboard has created a sizable dent in the bedroom’s plaster. “Ah,” he says. “Well.” He looks at the dent, smells the sweat in the air, and thinks  _ how perfect _ . He smiles.

Crowley stares at him. Aziraphale meets his gaze. “I've loved you since time started, before clocks were invented, through wars and the breaking of continents. I think I’ve loved you longer than I’ve had my own name.”

Fondness swells in Aziraphale’s chest. “Oh,  _ Crowley _ , I--”

“You’re paying to fix the wall.”

Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“And tomorrow, maybe we can.” He breathes out. “I dunno, go into town hall, or something. Maybe pick up a marriage license. For tax reasons.”

Aziraphale supposes that is fair as well. Lord only knows how long they’ve been married before this. Might as well make it official.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Then, sleep.

* * *

It’s dawn. It wasn’t dawn when Aziraphale closed his eyes, but here he is. The world is quiet. He can feel his heartbeat in between his breaths, the human aching of joints. Another heartbeat lies close to his own. Lifting a hand, Aziraphale brushes the hair from Crowley’s face, traces the line of his tattoo. Crowley blinks lazily up at him, eyes bleary. Brown eyes. Not the same, but he’s finally getting used to them.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says. “I love you.” And Crowley smiles.

* * *

It’s nearing spring. The sky has chosen to announce this quite joyfully, with a big blue horizon. When Crowley steps in, the water is still cold but carries a faint current of warmth. Rays of sunlight catch in Aziraphale’s hair. He’s wearing a ridiculous sweater from Mrs. Turner, a knitted mess of different shades of yellow. He looks like a dandelion lost at sea.

Crowley wades in with ease. Breathes in the air with ease. Takes his husband’s hand in his with ease. The seabirds are roosting now, and there’s more children playing in the sand. Still, Aziraphale’s gaze is fixed on the white mounds of chalk that jut from the sea. He’s smiling slightly.

“Why do you always look at those cliffs?” Crowley asks. “Every time we’re out here. Makes me feel a bit jealous.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale blinks, shaken from his reverie. “Oh, well. I suppose it’s a bit…” He looks down sheepishly, and grips Crowley’s hand tighter. “I made them. When the Earth was young, I mean. I made a lot of coastlines, but--” He sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always been proud of this one.” He beams in spite of himself, catches it, and tries to look less proud.

_ I love you so much _ , Crowley thinks. “I love you so much,” he says smiling, kissing Aziraphale on the lips. Still, he thinks about how long ago that was. He thinks, as he is wont to do, about the road ahead. He stares out at the cliffs. “Do you ever miss it?” he asks. Aziraphale frowns. “Immortality, and all that. Endless eternity.”

“Not much.”

Crowley turns to him and blinks. “Not much?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I don’t know...in the grand scheme of things, I think I prefer a little eternity.”

Another blink. “Really.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale chuckles. He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “A little eternity, with the one you love...it’s not the worst thing.”

Aziraphale continues to watch the cliffs. Crowley continues to watch Aziraphale. Back on shore, their shoes are being lapped up by the tide. It will be fine, in the long run--Crowley could care less now. He’d give a hundred shoes to the ocean for days like this: the cliffs, the breeze, the sunlight, the sea. A warm hand in his, gripped tight. Not letting go. 

“A little eternity with the one you love.” Crowley hums. He squeezes back. “I suppose you’re right.”

_ The End. _

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this! you can find me on tumblr as billypotts.


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